


Courting Mycroft Holmes

by orphan_account



Series: I mean, unless you want [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, and becomes a standup comedian, jim goes soul searching, no he doesn't idk why i wrote that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-03-09 03:52:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13473135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Or: how Jim Moriarty beat death, took his first real vacation, briefly became a Bond villain, and found true love--Jim Moriarty is lying on the rooftop, limbs askew, brains splattered, blood congealing. Out with a bang, indeed. All in all, a fairly anti-climatic end to a legend. His only consolation is that at least it came as a surprise.No, that’s not quite right.Let’s rewind a bit.∞





	1. Criminal masterminds do not have midlife crises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [problematic_just_because](https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematic_just_because/gifts).



 

Jim Moriarty is lying on the rooftop, limbs askew, brains splattered, blood congealing. Out with a bang, indeed. All in all, a fairly anti-climatic end to a legend. His only consolation is that at least it came as a surprise.

No, that’s not quite right.

Let’s rewind a bit.

∞

After being helicoptered and armed-guards-escorted in to the most secretive and secure holding facility in the world, Jim Moriarty plunks himself down across from Mycroft Holmes, possibly the most secretive man in the world, and grins like a shark.

“I already know that whatever it is, it’s going to be _awesome._ ”

No, that’s not quite right either.

It happened a few months later.

∞

“Hellooo, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft Holmes, the eldest of the infamous Holmes siblings, looks up from the paperwork on his desk with an expression of slight disgust.

It’s really a horrible disguise of an office desk. There is a little nameplate that advertises his position as a some deputy-something-something of the ministry of transportation or something or another.

It is not a real title, and the cheap thing looks like it belongs in the type of office with beige walls and opens into a floor of cramped cubicles. Not the classically decorated room with baroque touches he’s currently sitting in. It’s like if everyone didn’t know better, they might assume Mycroft Holmes had a sense of humor.

“Mr. Moriarty, to what do I owe this pleasant surprise,” Mycroft Holmes says, with an expression that reveals the opposite of either pleasure or surprise, in a tone that expresses no interest in the answer.

Jim Moriarty is sprawled out on his couch -- again, one clearly obtained with a budget beyond the means of a minor government official -- looking without a care in the world.

“Call me Jim, please. I’m here to proposition you,” he continues, swinging one leg across the other, clasping his hands together.

“I’m not interested.”

“Correction: I am here both to proposition you -- in a romantic and/or physical and/or business sense -- and I have a proposition for you, in a business-slash-personal sense,” Jim continues.

“Not interested,” Mycroft Holmes replies without missing a beat. He doesn’t even sound surprised. Jim is almost impressed.

“I’ve had an epiphany, you see,” he says, undeterred. “You should hire me.”

This statement is even weirder than the previous one, and Mycroft Holmes gapes for a moment before snapping his mouth shut.

“I mean, between you and me, we could take over the world! What do you think, two weeks?”

“I feel that would defeat the purpose,” Mycroft finally answers.

Jim shoots fingers-guns at him -- _pew-pew!_ \-- and barrels on as if he hadn’t heard a word.

“I think we should team up.”

“I think you should go home.”

Jim jumps to his feet, and for a moment Mycroft almost thinks he’s lucked out and Jim’s being compliant. Except then he just spins around toward Mycroft’s bookcase, busily pulling out books and replacing them in the wrong order. It half seems like he’s trying for a trick door, and half likely he’s just trying to rearrange the books in the most annoying order possible as he rambles.

“I’ve recently taken on an interesting South American cartel as a client, very big in that part of the world, that hemisphere, but _completely_ new to Europe and oh the fun we will have. Now, obviously, you’ll need to do your job in trying to deny entry -- where would the fun be without that?! -- but ultimately, the real pleasure comes with the long con. After a _really difficult_ import process, the drug spreads everywhere. They become the top in the game! Then we orchestrate a _spectacular_ takedown. Completely cripple the cartel. And the Ecuadorian economy! It’ll be _fantastic._ ”

He’s finished ruining the bookcase by now and flops back down on the couch. Mycroft’s fingers twitch.

“Am I correct to assume you’ve suffered a massive head injury recently?”

“Come now, Iceman, no need to be so cold,” Jim says, kicking up his heels. He starts counting off points on his fingers.

“After all, we had that beautiful heart-to-heart”--memories of that disturbing interrogation flash across his mind--”and I’ve already met your family”--footage of him and Eurus resurface for a hot second.

“I feel like we _know_ each other,” Jim continues on, in a mockingly theatrical tone. “Like you really _get me_ , you know?”

“No, I really don’t,” Mycroft replies in as dry a voice he can muster. “Now, would you please leave, or would you prefer I have you arrested?”

“Yes, well, I did think you would need some incentive,” Jim says, getting up and stalking over to Mycroft’s desk. “Some wining and dining, per se, so I brought you this.”

He sets a little smart phone on top of Mycroft’s stack of papers, and it shows footage of John Watson, ex-army doctor and close friend of consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, at lunch.

“I did expect a close detail on your brother, but his...friend was easy enough to put in the crosshairs.”

Mycroft sets his mouth into a grim line. The video feed is obviously live.

“This is an extraordinarily roundabout way of getting a meeting with me,” Mycroft says slowly.

Jim ignores him, spinning unnecessarily in a circle, arms out, as if delivering an exciting business pitch.

“Dead friend equals sad brother equals everything you’ve ever worked for collapsing into rubble, yes?” he says at rapid speed. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get down to business.”

Mycroft folds his hands across one another atop his desk, and waits. Jim stops his spinning with a flourish, and points straight at him.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he enunciates emphatically.

“...about this meeting?” Mycroft asks. This whole conversation has been like speaking to a child. A very dumb child, with sticky fingers.

“No, about _Sherlock,_ ” Jim spits out.

“He is a _romantic_ and he is making such _deathly slow progress_ that if I didn’t know any better, I would say was on _purpose._

Mycroft only raises an eyebrow.

“Now,” Jim starts, collecting himself. “Tell me something. This has been on my mind for, oh, a couple of months now.”

He scoots closer.

“Your sister,” he starts, and Mycroft starts to see where this is going.

“I mean--there’s _you_ , there’s _Eurus_ \--”

“Ah,” Mycroft says with the tiniest of nods, more to himself than anything. He and his sister have had the same conversation.

“He’s -- compared to you, compared to _her_ , to _us_ \-- he’s -- normal? But he doesn’t think he’s normal. He doesn’t _act_ like he’s normal. Can genuis be made, do you think? And does it matter?”

Jim’s tone starts angry and meanders into contemplative, but he soon picks up speed and gets increasingly upset again.

“It’s like he completely _fails_ to understand that with enough money and muscle you can bludgeon fate into dealing you whatever hand you’d like. He lives in a complete fantasy world, of make-believe and play-pretend, which is well and good because he knows there is a script to follow, _but he refuses to make the next move,_ as if the world _revolves_ around him.”

“What is _wrong_ with him?!” Jim exclaims, throwing his arms up.

“Nothing, he’s always been like that,” Mycroft replies simply. Although…

Jim narrows a glare at him and points accusingly as he walks from one side of Mycroft’s desk to the other.

“Look, when he started sticking his nose into my work, you and I had an agreement. I’d get to have my fun, and he would stay entertained,” Jim snarls. “ _Quid pro quo._ ”

“I fail to see how any of that has changed,” Mycroft says carefully.

“ _THAT IS THE POINT!!”_ Jim cries out. “The game should be _escalating_ , but--instead, I’ve been leading him from point A to B to C every step of the way. Nothing changes until I _make it._ He hasn’t even arranged a _meeting_ with me as of yet. Partially your doing, though, no doubt.”

“What do I need to do, blow up a primary school? Steal the crown jewels? At what point is a crime _grievous_ enough that he decides it’s time to up the ante?”

He gives another dramatic spin before flopping back onto the couch.

“I’m getting _bored_ having to do all the work, Mr. Holmes,” Jim says in a clipped tone.

Mycroft gives in and rolls his eyes. “And still I fail to see what this has to do with me.”

“I could always kill him,” Jim says casually, albeit a little too quickly.

Mycroft’s tone gives none of his fear away as he replies, “But then your fun would end even sooner, wouldn’t it?”

Jim’s quiet for a moment before a slow smile spreads across his face, and then he looks like the cat that’s got the canary.

“That’s where you come in, Mr. Holmes. Or can I call you Mycroft? Mykie?”

“You may not.”

“See, Mykie, you have managed to keep your beloved little brother occupied and entertained his whole life,” Jim muses. “And you’ve gone through what seems like quite a bit of trouble -- especially for such a supposed lazy man -- to amass the kind of power and influence to play puppet master, to set the stage for and cast the characters around your _dear brother._ ”

He purses his lips for a beat.

“What’s to say you can’t do the same for me?”

Then, it dawns on him. Mycroft’s expression becomes one akin to that of shock and horror, or it would have been, had he been an expressive sort of man.

“Are you -- Mr. Moriarty, is this some sort of mid-life crisis?” he manages to get out. He sounds positively offended. “On my _couch?_ ”

Now Jim _looks_ offended.

“Excuse _you,_ ” he retorts. “I don’t look a day over 35.”

“Get out,” Mycroft pushes back. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Go out to dinner with me,” Jim replies, apropos of nothing.

Mycroft chooses to ignore the non-sequitur, then leans forward and clears his throat. Time to put an end to this.

“Look, Mr. Moriarty.”

“Call me Jim.”

“Mr. Moriarty.”

“Jim.”

“Fine, Jim, George, whatever. Ever since you and Sherlock Holmes crossed paths, there has clearly been a sense of rivalry between the two of you.”

Jim narrows his eyes at him, but Mycroft holds up a hand signalling for him to hold his interruption.

“And _clearly_ you would not be satisfied if you killed him now and allowed for the game to end, since it appears you’ve never been challenged like so in your line of work, otherwise you would not have gone through such trouble to be interrogated by me in the first place. I am a very busy man, Jonathan, so don’t even try to downplay how much effort you made in trying to get my attention, so you could ultimately obtain Sherlock’s life story.”

“Now, Jeremiah, think clearly for a moment. What are you going to do with yourself a week from now? A month? What about a year?”

“Can you really return to the monotony of advising mobs and crime syndicates, with the occasional jewel or art heist thrown in, maybe a bombing or two, without the theatrics and obstacles you’ve become so accustomed to over the past year?”

“You would stop me,” Jim grumbles.

“Yes, quietly. Whereas both you and Sherlock are practically peacocks, Jenkins, and all the world’s a runway,” Mycroft says.

“After all those little messages I left, you came to see me, but Sherlock wouldn’t know me if I showed up on his doorstep.”

“Therefore,” Mycroft continues, ignoring Jim’s grumbling. “I am proposing you take a vacation.”

Jim looks at him like he just spit up on his desk.

“A what?”

“A vacation. Think of it as a gap year, of sorts. Go explore, oh, Tibet perhaps. Go be a proper tourist at Yosemite, maybe. Nothing like the awe of natural wonders to put your existential whinging in new perspective. Or so I’m told.”

Jim stares at him for a long moment, then his jaw drops.

“You’re giving me the Sherlock-pre-university speech!” he sputters, full of righteous indignation.

“You are acting like an adolescent, yes,” Mycroft intones tiredly.

Jim purses his mouth and, for a moment, Mycroft expects him to launch into another angry tirade, complete with theatrical gestures and such. Instead, the younger man abruptly gets up off the couch, and makes a swift exit without another word.

Five days later, the agency is beside itself with work as an unprecedented deluge of counterterrorism measures are needed in five major cities. Mycroft is pleased that the front page headline of every newspaper the subsequent day is about the release of some new tech gadget, and there is no whisper of this or that bombing anywhere. He is doubly pleased that he has not heard from Moriarty again, and that John Watson’s blog recently updated with a proud entry on Sherlock’s clever disassembly of a locked-room murder.

Then it occurs to him that the infamous Moriarty has given him a strange amount of leverage, and this cannot be by accident. 


	2. A gap year in 58 days

Except.

It’s quiet for nearly two months after that one weird encounter.

It’s quiet until Mycroft enters his office nearly two months later and finds a little tape sitting square center on his desk top. It’s the kind you can pop into a hand-held video camera, and a strange choice of data transmission for anyone. 

It’s labeled Vlog 1-3, and signed JM with a smiley face wearing sunglasses. 

Mycroft drags his hand down his face and sends for unconnected equipment with which to watch the tape.

∞ 

It futzes for a moment, then sparks to life as the static is replaced with Jim’s face: sunglasses on, hair slicked back, afternoon sun creating a sort of halo effect. It’s all very vacation-y. His voice is sing-song-y as he greets him.

_ Hey, Jim here. Hope you haven’t forgotten me already.  _

He pans to the side and Mycroft gets a spectacular glimpse of the Grand Canyon before the camera lands back on Jim’s face.

_ So. What about that date? Meet me in Arizona tonight? _

He gives the camera a cheeky grin before ducking his face out of the sun.

_ You know, the first time we “met,” you actually did hold a minor position in the government.  _

∞ 

The first time Jim and Mycroft crossed paths, neither of them were yet aware of the other’s existence. Mycroft was a not even lowly analyst just starting out in the secret service, but an  _ intern, _ and had noticed a slight anomaly that led to the detainment of three sleeper agents. It was a mere quirk that, to Mycroft at least, pointed to a very confident third party that had been brought in to aid the agents’ upcoming mission. They shouldn’t have done that. It was the whole point of  _ sleeper _ agents, after all.

One day later -- one day prior to the plan being set in motion -- one university lecturer, one tax accountant, and one London socialite took a vacation. And never came back. 

It wasn’t until nothing happened that Jim even realized it was too late and everything had gone to shit. There had been no way to trace anything back to him, of course, and his client didn’t even suspect him, but it grated on him horribly nonetheless.

So imagine his surprise when he discovered a lanky, baby-faced agent who had sniffed out Jim’s involvement and promptly brought the theory to his superiors. He’d verbally dismantled the upcoming, three-part coordinated intelligence attack in such a blase manner, even going so far as to avoid drawing attention that someone had possibly “consulted” on the affair to prevent the theory from coming across as outlandish.

Jim nearly mistook the nonchalance for lack of ambition. He was right, and he was wrong.

Mycroft really was just a bit lazy, and Jim really did have something to worry about. 

The next time they “met” was not even one week later, when a completely unrelated drug drop off went up in flames.

Literal flames.

There was rumored government involvement, but nothing definitive. 

It didn’t take long for Mycroft to be heading his own team despite his age. Jim, meanwhile, was holed up in libraries and cafes, still a minor, just getting his feet wet in the big leagues. 

It was then that Jim knew someone in the government had his number. So he made contingencies, and waited.

And waited.

But nothing came.

For the next two years, it seemed like he had been forgotten.

And during that time, his network grew into an empire.

∞

The next “vlog” comes from what looks like Mexico City. It’s loud and it looks like a scene out of a college film with a spring break scene, and Jim, with a mishmash of accents, is talking into the camera like “ _ Hey girls, say hi for Youtube channel!!”  _ before the cacophony of voices overtake any attempts to do a proper narration. 

There’s less than a minute more of the shaky party (bar? club?) footage before it cuts into a poorly lit close-up of Jim’s face. The pumping music sounds far away, and there are waves crashing in the background. He’s at a secluded section of a beach, perhaps. His Irish drawl is back.

_ Did you ever go on Spring Break, Mr. Holmes? I can’t imagine it.  _

_ Anyway, I always forget how much business there is near South America. Can’t make an appearance without being asked to do some house calls.  _

_ The first few I ignored. The fifth one kind of got on my  _ nerves.

A grin spreads across his face and Jim looks away for a moment, as if relishing a fun memory. Then he begins to laugh. 

_ Now, it’s just the funniest thing, but-- _

∞ 

As Jim waltzes his way into the big, dark and scary warehouse, it occurs to him, not for the first time, how cliche it all is.

He doesn’t entirely mind; after all, theater thrives on archetypes.

There are goons with guns, the head honcho sat in the middle, and no windows as he has a reputation for well-placed snipers. Containers stack ominously high on either side. It’s a makeshift fortress. As if they’re here to play pretend.

“Buenos dias!” Jim greets them, arms wide open in mock subservience, in the worst accent he can muster.

Blank expressions all around. He drops his arms and whips off the sunglasses in disappointment.

Goons with guns are rarely any fun. He’s feeling whimsical today so he’s decided to take a meeting in person. Local drug rings wanting to expand across continents and all. He has the shipping contacts to make it happen.

“Everybody out. I had a meeting with one man, and you are all intruding,” he says in a low tone.

“My men stay,” the head honcho replies.

Jim shoots him an incredulous look for a long moment, then reaches into his pocket to pull out a small pistol. Not a second has passed before every other gun in the room is trained on him.

“I don’t think you’ll want them in the room when you hear the price I’m going to name,” Jim says in a sing-song voice. The head honcho gives Goon 1 a look, and his gun drops briefly as he pulls out a suitcase instead.

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” Jim replies, shaking his head. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want money, I want a secret.”

They’re both silent for another moment. It’s a very long moment.

Then--the head honcho acquiesces. He motions for goons to drop their guns, and they do, though most of them still level untrusting looks at Jim. He looks back at Jim as if to say “satisfied?” and Jim smiles.

Then he pulls the trigger.

“BANG!!” he yells for added effect. It’s a prop gun, and a little flag pops out instead of a bullet, but it scares ten years off everyone’s life nonetheless. He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, because absolutely no one else in the room is. Their guns are up again, and he supposes he’s lucky they’re all slow and didn’t shoot. Or not. He can’t tell most days. 

Two minutes later, the goons have cleared out and Jim and the cartel head can finally talk terms. The facts are these:

  1. Earlier that day, Jim realized the affair the head honcho’s wife had been having could hold sway over the upcoming presidential elections, and they both knew this.
  2. The head honcho was, technically, an upstart in this industry, having worked his way up to his “head” position within just the past two years. With Jim’s help, of course. THey’d had many meetings like this current one, where the head honcho made outlandish demands and Jim gave him the blueprints to make it happen for a significant cut.
  3. Which meant he had many enemies. 



And such as it were, one of these enemies proved himself to be much more entertaining -- more audacious in his objectives, and more lucrative as a business partner.

And as such, Jim stood up, and slit the head honcho’s throat. 

∞

Now back on the beach.

Jim looks towards the waves, contemplative.

_ Now, we both know that if I really wanted to be a, an actor, or maybe a tech CEO, or whatever I wanted to be, I could do it. If I wanted to get out, I could do it.  _

_ It’s not like I haven’t got enough stashed somewhere to retire comfortably. _

He looks back at the camera to give the most disingenuous smile. 

_ It’s just that everyone would miss me  _ so much.

The smile falls, and is replaced by a smaller, more genuine one.

_ We both know everyone would be at each others’ throats within a month.  _

_ Chaos. Millions lost in infighting. _

_ Actually, that does sound rather fun… _

∞ 

As benign as the video is itself, Mycroft has a niggling feeling that Jim having been in Mexico around the time of one incident of such “infighting” cannot be coincidence.

On the surface it seems the death of one main player set of not just a turf war, but similar plays in the Italian mob one country over, the cartels two countries south, and friction in the central islands. Closer inspection reveals, to Mycroft at least, that this is Jim’s idea of Spring Break: taking out random crime lords to keep the fear and chaos alive. Especially since all of them died the same way. 

Some people control via fear and order. Others, through chaos. Jim is clearly the latter. 

“Oh Jim,” he says to himself. “I leave you alone for two months, and you go and become a serial killer? Where is the profit in  _ that? _ ”

He sighs and hits play again, to watch the third and last vlog.

_ Hellllooo, Mr. Holmes! _

Jim’s sitting in what looks like a black chair in front of a makeup artist this time. There are mirrors and boxes and his hair is brushed back there is a towel around his neck.

_ I’m back in London. I figured I’d pursue that acting career. _

The camera goes wide for a moment and he is indeed on some sort of set.

_ Actually, it’s another consulting gig. I consulted on a script this time - isn’t that funny? I helped create the villain this time. In return, I got a bit of a cameo!  _

_ I play, well, a lackey of sorts. And I take a spectacular fall! _

_ This villain, well, he reminds me of you a bit. _

Jim cackles. Then he zooms in too close on his face. Everything’s shaky as someone brushes some power on his face.

_ It’s all very Big Brother, and all.  _

He whispers.

_ It’s a Bond villain.  _

The makeup artist is gone and he looks dead into the camera.

_ Do you know what the moral of the story is?  _

_ That it’s  _ personal _. _

_ No matter what the scale you’re playing on -- It’s always personal. _

_ It’s a very fun role -- both of them. I based him off you, if you had been more like me. Now my character, my character’s nothing like me! He reminds me of you, too. All Surveillance State, with a stick up his ass and all. _

_ Anyway, the premiere’s in December. You will come with me, won’t you?  _

_ It’s~ a~ date. _

The tape ends, and it goes back to futzing black-and-white static. 

When Mycroft looks at the clock again, he realizes it’s already late. He stands, ready to leave -- to get dinner, perhaps -- when the phone rings.

He purses his lips, already having an idea of who it might be.

“Hello?” he answers anyway.

“Mr. Holmes! Are you free tonight?” Jim’s voice chimes on the other end.

“No, I am not.”

“Boo, don’t be a spoilsport. Don’t you want to hear about my vacation?”

“The…’vlogs’ were more telling than I ever needed,” Mycroft replies dryly.

“What, you didn’t like that shot of me in a swimsuit? I would’ve thought Mexico would have been the most exciting bit.”

“Mr. Moriarty, are you having a nervous breakdown of some sort? I cannot fathom why you would get so sloppy.”

“Look, I need a favor.”

“What is it?”

“Oh  _ now _ you’re interested? Anyway, I’ll be a block south from your brother’s apartment in 10 -- send a car to pick me up.”

“ _ Excuse me -- _ ”

“ _ Bye!! _ ”


	3. First dates, dress rehearsal

“Okay okay okay,” Jim says, before folding his hands in front of him and stilling. The next words out of his mouth are in a very serious tone. “Real talk.”

Mycroft waits. They’re seated across from each other, taking tea at the back of a hotel restaurant that is otherwise closed. 

“Sherlock,” Jim says, and Mycroft tenses.

“Is he adopted?” Jim continues. 

Mycroft stifles the urge to roll his eyes and tries not to feel too relieved.

“You know perfectly well he’s not.”

“Were  _ you _ adopted?” 

“Mr. Moriarty,” he says, with as much exasperation as he can possibly muster. 

Jim looks contemplative. 

“I know your  _ sister’s _ not adopted, she’d be much easier for you to dispose of if she wasn’t blood,” he muses. “You’re so  _ sentimental _ .”

“Mr. Moriarty, is there a point to this meeting?”

“Jim.”

“ _ Jim. _ ”

Jim gives him a flat look. Then it turns coy.

“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” he says. “You get to look at us allll day, like little ants on the ground, and you up there with your cameras like a big magnifying glass. Did you do that as a child? Or was that more your younger siblings’ domain?”

“But what if  _ I _ want to see  _ you _ ?” Jim continues. “I have to go through so much trouble. It’s not fair. I propose we pencil in a standing meeting for Wednesday afternoons.”

“I am a very busy man and I’m afraid you’re not worth all that time,” Mycroft replies, dry as anything.

“Ooh, are you suggesting you’re more expensive than I can afford?  _ Mycroft _ ? I’m sure I have plenty to say that would, how should I put it,  _ interest you _ ,” Jim replies.

“Are you suggesting to trade intel for my time?” Mycroft says, sarcastic and disbelieving, but not saying no.

“Yes. Does that make you feel  _ more _ like you’re selling yourself, or less?” Jim asks.

Mycroft purses his lips. Jim smiles benevolently and waits.

“Vacation did you some good,” Mycroft finally says. “You seem relaxed.”

“Hmm. Yes. Maybe. You know what’s really interesting, though? Crime all around the world is basically the same,” Jim says. “I’m not sure there are many other industries you can say that about.”

Mycroft scoffs.

“Yes, because criminal activity is a legitimate industry.”

“It is,” Jim says easily. “And they power the governments of most countries around the world. I’m not sure why our relationship should be any different. Though I didn’t come here with intention of discussing work very much.”

“Anyway, most of it is more or less the same, but at least I have artistic vision,” he says. “People want money, power, to let off a little steam.”

“And I think—hear me out—I think what I was really looking for was just some appreciation,” Jim continues.

Mycroft just stares. Jim makes a  _ pshaw _ sound and gesture.

“I know, right? Three years of therapy right there!, in a vacation,” he says with laughter in his voice. 

“And that’s how it escalates.” 

“Because you have your Henry’s and Richard’s of the world who are like,  _ ohhh please, my mother-in-law’s a right bitch and she’s been oppressing me and ohh Dear Jim, please fix it for me and help me axe the old broad _ , and when you agree to something like this no matter how creative you get all they care is that they got away with it, but it doesn’t last, right? Because then they feel guilty, or they get a taste for it, and it just falls apart, it’s all very, very messy,” Jim explains. 

“So I’ve only ever taken on the ones where the clients had the means to fall apart beautifully, like dramatic suicides or ruining a big wedding or something.”

“Then you’ve got your drug and arms smuggling rings, which, not really a perfect crime, nothing neat about it, but hey, they make economic sense and I am, too, a businessman,” Jim says.

He laughs. “You know, no one ever goes up to you saying. Hey. I’ve got this idea. I want to plan this locked room murder, for someone I’m so loosely connected to that the police won’t even suspect me, not for a long while at least, except I want to get away with the whole thing. You know?”

“Most people are just like, hey I need money. Or, hey I would  _ really  _ like to get rid of this guy,” he says. “And sure there are usually copious tears and massive amounts of desperation involved, but I’ve got to come up with the whole thing, yeah? And I don’t mind, because I get complete creative freedom with all this.”

“But,” he says, and then he flattens his lips together. He has to really pull the words out. “The appreciation just. Doesn’t last.”

“Then Sherlock, oh Sherlock, I knew he could appreciate my work. I went, deliberately, I went out of my way to craft these  _ beautiful _ little puzzles for him and oh boy did he dance,” Jim says, a nostalgic smile on his lips now. 

“But that, too, is fleeting.” Jim sighs dramatically. “First it was all  _ ohhh Moriarty is so smart! He’s just like me! A serial crime, John, it’s Christmas! _ ”

“How did we get from  _ that _ to  _ I have to put Moriarty behind bars for life! _ ” he asks.

Mycroft turns his teacup away from him.

“Oh. Hm. I wonder if it might have been taking his friend hostage that did it,” Mycroft says, and puts on an expression of mock surprise.

“You do know he has just the one, right? He is very protective of him,” Mycroft adds.

Jim ignores him.

“I considered, actually, what it might be like to consult on retainer. Much like what you do,” Jim says. 

“Except that would mean having to deal with the same people repeatedly and  _ boring _ . What if I don’t like working with them? I’ve just consolidated myself into a corner. I need to diversify!” he says.

Then he slams his palms face down on the table, shaking the cups, startling Mycroft.

“And that’s when I realized,” Jim says, before leaning close, voice low, as if he is about to reveal something really profound.

“I don’t even like crime. I don’t. I don’t care about the game,” he says, and shrugs. “I just—”

“I just like ruining lives.”

Mycroft squints at him.

“Again,” Mycroft says. “I am not your therapist.”

Jim pouts.

“I’ve figured it out now, and you should be proud of me,” Jim says.

“And what is that half-cocked conclusion anyway, some line from some movie?” Mycroft asks, voice full of disdain.

Jim makes finger guns at him again. Pew-pew.

“You’d know if you watched movies, current ones, you know ones that still play in theaters. You should let me take you to one,” he says.

“No, thank you.”

Mycroft sighs.

“You said you needed a favor,” he reminds Jim.

“I’m getting to that,” Jim says.

Mycroft stands, deftly rebuttoning his jacket.

“Well, Mr. Moriarty, you’ll have to get to that another time. This, I’m sure you understand is more time than I could afford to spare,” he says. “Good night.”

∞ 

When Mycroft returns to his schedule, he finds with some horror that there have been some changes. Mainly, one major change: Wednesday afternoons now have a tea scheduled in, and everything once in its place has already been rescheduled.

Anthea doesn’t even look up when Mycroft questions her.

“All the rescheduled meetings have been confirmed,” she says in lieu of a straight answer.

∞ 

Mycroft is not planning to attend the first Wednesday meeting the next week, but he doesn’t update his calendar because he feels no need to extend Jim Moriarty the courtesy of alerting him of this cancellation. Especially since he never agreed to this meeting.

But then he gets out from his meeting with the French ambassador to find that his car has been double parked in. 

In fact, there is an identical black vehicle parked next to his own, and cabs in the front and rear, which would have blocked him in had he been in the car. 

Mycroft stares, aghast at the incompetence of the driver who was supposedly inside the car, when the window of the outside car rolls down, and Moriarty in aviator sunglasses waves to him.

“Hey honey, I’m here to pick you up,” he yells, too loud to be polite. 

Mycroft approaches with some trepidation.

“I didn’t want you to be late,” Jim says with a smile.

“I’m not going with you,” Mycroft says. It comes out a little petulant, but the entire situation is awfully immature already.

Jim raises an eyebrow.

“Isn’t this your preferred method of transportation to meetings? Covert kidnappings in black vehicles with mysterious destinations? C’mon, we can go somewhere very mysterious,” Jim says.

Mycroft hesitates. He’s considering the possibilities, when Jim opens his mouth again.

“ _ C’monnnn.  _ What’s the worst that could happen?” Jim asks. 

It’s sort of like a wake up call.

The worst that could happen? A lot. 

Jim reads immediately from Mycroft’s face that he’s said the wrong thing.

He groans.

“Live a little!” he says, opening the door and tugging at Mycroft’s sleeve. “I’m not gonna kill you, not going to make you  _ spill _ any  _ state secrets  _ here, yeesh.”

Mycroft acquiesces and, after making eye-contact with his assistant, does get into the car. He doesn’t want to cause a scene. 

Jim smiles and scoots in so Mycroft can awkwardly squeeze through the small opening caused by the double parking and get into the car.

Then he sits back and folds his hands across his front and looks Mycroft up and down.

“So I thought about it, and I think what you do could be interesting to me, if it was less patriotic and more chaotic. I need my freedom after all. Did you know that the same company that represents corn on Capitol Hill represents the country of Turkey? The whole country, not the bird, they’re not exclusively farming and agriculture,” Jim says. “I’ll tell you more about it later.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes.

“What I’m saying is I might need a reference letter or two,” Jim adds, as if they were talking about a perfectly normal job transition.

“Is that the favor?” Mycroft asks.

“No, no, that’s something else,” Jim replies flippantly.

∞ 

They end up in a museum cafe, where it is brightly lit and not packed but still very public. Jim is not in a suit, having dressed up as some bohemian, artsy character, and Mycroft feels very strange to be seen with him.

Evidently, it shows.

“Don’t worry, they’ll think you’re like my agent or something,” Jim says.

They order, and then lapse into silence while waiting for the tea to arrive. 

Mycroft watches the people milling around in the lobby on the level below, and Jim’s eyes follow the people flowing in and out of the cafe area, talking about art.

It’s calming.

Then the tea comes, and the waitress arranges the cups and plates on the tables, and leaves again.

“So, I realize we’ve come off to a bad start,” Jim says, pocketing his sunglasses. “I will apologize for breaking into your office, if you will apologize for rudely brushing me off.”

He ignores Mycroft’s affronted look and barrels on.

“I think we should start over. Count this as the first date. We can consider the others dress rehearsals,” Jim says.

“We’re not dating,” Mycroft says.

“Okay, okay,” Jim says, nodding. “Agree to disagree.”

“See! We can compromise after all,” Jim adds. 

Mycroft wonders whether it would be worse that all this turned out to be the inane waste of time it seemed to be, or worse if this were all the elaborate setup to a trap he hadn’t yet realized.

“Jim,” Mycroft starts slowly. That gets a response from him. A grin, in fact.

Well. He’s thrown himself under the bus for England before. For Sherlock before. Why not again.

“Why do you want to date me?” he asks, still slowly, and morbidly curious. This is by far the weirdest and most disturbing way he’s ever been pursued but hell if it’s not an ego boost.

Jim stops, and seems to think it over.

“Similar interests? Shared life experience? To get in your pants?” he lists. “What do people normally start dating for? Would you prefer we start over and engineer some sort of meet cute? Is that your thing?”

“I don’t understand any of those words that just came out of your mouth,” Mycroft says, giving up and taking a sip of his tea. He must be in some alternate universe. Or having some strange fever dream. He  _ was _ feeling a bit dizzy on the flight back from Argentina.

When he looks back up he finds Jim waiting expectantly. Like he was actually expecting an answer.

“Alright,” Mycroft finds himself saying.

“All…?” Jim asks, then he leans forward and cups his ear. “Sorry, I don’t think I heard you.”

AS if that wasn’t cue enough that this whole thing was some strange and absurd setup. If not state secrets, then maybe people would jump out from the other tables around them and start laughing and pointing cameras and yell some version of “you got pranked!!”

Mycroft detested being in vulnerable positions, and had worked very hard to stay out of them always.

This, he told himself, was a calculated risk. And that was a complete lie, because he had no idea what he was getting into.

“Alright,” Mycroft says. “Let’s go on a date.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok real talk I can’t find my outline for this and I only have a very vague idea of how it goes and idk how we’re gonna get there but I’m gunna finish it because I get antsy when I leave things unfinished. Stuff is still going to happen


	4. Mycroft, Mycroft, let your hair down

Jim blinks.

Then he smiles. 

He’s prepared for this. 

“Why don’t we start now?” Jim asks. 

Mycroft inclines his head just the slightest to signal his assent and from there they begin.

“Let’s just,” Jim gestures, looking for the words. “Get to know each other first.”

Mycroft waits, so he continues.

“I’ll begin,” Jim says. “Just some simple questions.”

He wonders if Mycroft is even aware that he’s raised his guard again; the man is terrified of vulnerability.

“Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?” Jim asks. 

Mycroft opens his mouth, and then closes it, giving Jim a skeptical look. 

“Oh come now, I can practically see the gears turning in your head trying to figure out if I have some ulterior motive. I’m not going to begrudge you for picking your teen rock idol or deduce some major national security plan if you name a foreign dignitary, though I can’t say I won’t laugh at you if you say the Queen,” Jim says, spearing a little tea cake with a fork. 

Mycroft smiles a little, and appears to think about it, but not very hard.

“Alright, spoiler, my ulterior motive is to get into your pants. Eventually,” Jim says. 

“James Bond,” Mycroft finally answers. 

Jim’s eyebrows go up. Mycroft shrugs.

“You didn’t preclude fictional characters.”

Jim chews, nods, mulls it over.

“Would you like to be famous? In what way?” he asks.

“Don’t I get to ask any questions?” Mycroft replies.

“Yes, if you’d like,” Jim says. “Mine still stands though.”

Mycroft’s brows furrow just a bit as he processes the odd question.

“We’re both a bit infamous already, don’t you think?” he settles on. 

Jim nods. “Any more publicity and I’d have a hard time keeping this up!” he says. Then, as if remembering something funny, a laugh startles out of him. 

“There, I answered too,” Jim says. “Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”

Mycroft stares at him. None of these questions suited either of them, and it was as if—

“Are you reading these off a script somewhere?” Mycroft asks, aghast.

Instead of looking at all sheepish, Jim grins and shows Mycroft his mobile phone. It’s a New York Times column about a study, and it includes a list of 36 questions to facilitate falling in love in just one session. 

Mycroft drops the phone back on the table with a little shudder, and Jim takes it back with another eyeroll.

“The idea is to share vulnerability, hence creating intimacy,” Jim summarizes.

“Well if that were enough to have two people fall in love, don’t you think the interrogation would have done it?” Mycroft asks wrly.

Jim bats his eyes at him and gets to enjoy Mycroft trying to outdo his last exasperated expression. 

“What makes you think that isn’t why I’m here now?” Jim jokes. 

“Anyway, the questions are supposed to increase in intensity as they go along, blah blah blah, and then at the end you’re supposed to stare into each other’s eyes for two to four minutes, sealing the deal,” he finishes explaining.

Mycroft sounds bored to death when he replies, “Jeremiah, please do perform your little experiments on lesser beings with ample more free time than someone such as myself.”

“Boo, Mr. Holmes, I just wanted to see what you would say,” Jim replies. “Besides, when was the last time you showed any vulnerability? You’re so rigid and guarded that any crack in the ice and it would all collapse!”

Mycroft folds his hands in front of him.

“I’m sure you can appreciate the fact that my position does not allow for any  _ vulnerability, _ ” he says.

Jim scoffs. 

“ _ I’m  _ emotionally vulnerable nearly  _ all of the time _ and nothing ever  _ gets  _ to me,” Jim says. “A little audacity goes a long way, you know.”

“Yes, and most people think you’re insane, so,” Mycroft looks pointedly at the table between them as if to signal that it’s not quite worth it. 

Jim just sighs and shakes his head.

“Poor, poor Mycroft. You’re eternally serving England. You’re always there for your little, baby brother. But who’s there for you?” 

“You know why I never tried turning you two against each other? Because I know you’d just roll over and show your soft belly. He is  _ such  _ a weak spot for you. Now your sister, your sister has no qualms against pitting you two against each other,” Jim comments, leveling him a meaningful look. 

“And even then,  _ even then _ , you’re only so  _ fretful _ because you’re playing a role. ‘Big Brother.’ You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself without your little roles and labels, would you?” Jim muses, leaning into his hand. 

He drums his fingers against his cheek and thinks.

“Tell me this, Mycroft. When we first crossed paths, I was just another document, another file, that happened to cross your desk,” Jim says. “And I must have been somewhat intriguing, because it wasn’t immediately circulated elsewhere. There was  _ juuuuust _ enough trouble to warrant special oversight, but not so much that the kingdom needed to send in the big guns.”

He looks at Mycroft now.

“Why did you hand that file off to Sherlock?” Jim asks, curious.

Mycroft settles back into his chair.

“As you said, the minimum of oversight was required, hence the file making its way to my desk. But it required tedious legwork to ascertain the ongoings and did not meet the criteria for utmost urgency,” Mycroft drones on, repeating Jim’s own explanation back to him peppered with jargon. 

Jim purses his lips.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought we were having honesty hour here!”

“You’re enjoying the  _ game _ with my brother, are you not? What is the problem here, exactly?” Mycroft asks.

Jim sighs.

“Mycroft Holmes, master of deflection. What are you so afraid of?”

Mycroft scans the room behind Jim, as if scouting for exits, as if he didn’t mentally download the very blueprint of the building the moment he set foot in this place, and oh if he doesn’t look like prey right now.

“This isn’t easy for me,” Mycroft says, still not looking at him. “Even...this, whatever this is, being seen with you in public no matter how innocuous the setting, is, frankly, a risk.”

“Does it not occur to you, Jim, that fear often stems from self-preservation? From knowing that, should one go down that path, one will inevitably change. A sort of death of oneself in order to become something new.”

“What reason could I possibly have to deny myself something from which I derive enjoyment?” 

“Well, once I’ve become the kind of man who has tasted that particular pleasure, I can hardly return to who I was before now, can I?”

“It would take more than twice the strength of will to go backwards,” Mycroft says, finally looking at Jim again.

“And  _ that,”  _ he adds, hand open in a gesture of  _ it is what it is, “ _ is why I cannot show you any  _ vulnerability _ .”

Jim nearly drops his fork. This is far more than he expected, this frank honesty from the elder Holmes brother. The dramatic flair is completely expected, however. 

He saves his fumble and sets the little utensil down, leaning his face into his hand yet again.

“Well,” Jim says. “So much for first date talk. We’re far too self-aware for niceties, as we feared. I guess we’ll have to try something else.”

“Hm,” is Mycroft’s only reply. 

Jim rolls the fork back and forth on the table cloth, thinking. Plan A was a bust but he still has B-H to consider. 

“We could try each other out in bed,” he says to Mycroft’s completely deadpan expression.

Plan X was a longshot anyway.

He scrunches his mouth up in a semblance of a smile. 

“No, this is good,” Jim says. “Anything else would have been a farce.”

“What is it that makes ordinary people more capable of creating real, human connection?” Jim muses.

“Trust bred by naiveté?” Mycroft guesses. “Courage borne of ignorance? A heart?”

Jim points, as if he’s just gotten an idea.

“But don’t you want that sometimes?” he asks, curious, not longing. “Someone to come home to after a long week at work.”

Mycroft looks scandalized.

“Good God no, I don’t even want to come home to my mail after herding politicians around like cats all day, I couldn’t possibly bother with another human,” Mycroft replies.

“Makes sense,” Jim nods. 

They wallow in silence for a moment.

“How does Sherlock do it?” Jim asks.

Mycroft gives him a half-shrug half-shudder.

The conversation turns to art after that, being that they are in a museum, and though it is all very telling, it is decidedly impersonal compared to what came before.

∞ 

The next week, Jim rings Mycroft Wednesday morning, hours before the penciled in afternoon tea.

“That favor I asked,” he starts, foregoing a greeting.

“Very nice to hear from you too, Jim,” Mycroft says. He can practically hear Jim smile through the phone.

“I still want to meet this afternoon, but not a date. Not quite business either. Business for you, perhaps. It’s personal,” Jim says. And if that’s not foreboding.

Mycroft checks his schedule out of habit.

“Alright.”

∞ 

“I need you to help me fake my death,” Jim says, casually, having finished folding his napkin into a robot or something. 

“And why would I possibly agree to do that?” Mycroft asks.

Mycroft pokes at the robot with his tea spoon and Jim gives him a very offended look.

“You said you’d help!”

“I did not.”

“Okay maybe not in so many words, but.”

Mycroft gives him a suspicious once-over.

“What are you up to?”

“Tonight? Not much, quiet night in, homecooked meal and a movie. Why? Want to join me?”

“Jim.”

Jim sighs noisily, and flicks the little napkin robot so that he collapses face-down. 

“I need to do something dramatic, but I’ll also need time and space to recoup my losses from that afterward. Think about it, a big public death—Moriarty, disappeared! It’ll cause such chaos in the underworld, it’ll be fantastic. Such a wonderful mess, everyone running around like headless chickens. I have bets placed already, you know,” Jim says.

“And what of your game with Sherlock?” Mycroft asks.

Jim shrugs. 

“I suppose we’ll just leave it.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes at Jim. He knows, they  _ both know _ , that Sherlock is a relentless little terrier who will not drop a bone once he’s gotten his teeth in, and there is no way this can end well.

“You know perfectly well Sherlock will not just  _ leave it _ , Jim, and you are not dragging my  _ brother _ into this little existential crisis of yours,” Mycroft says.

“Whoa, hey, alright. Geez,” Jim says with his hands up. “We’ll tie things up nicely, make a whole production of it.”

Mycroft is still leveling him his icy stare.

“I’ll make a few threats, make a tiny misstep, he’ll catch me alone somewhere and, I don’t know, push me off a rooftop or something, sound good?”

“You are not making a  _ murderer _ out of my brother either.”

“Okay, so I’ll trip off the roof. Easy.”

“If this is so  _ easy _ , what do you need me for?” Mycroft huffs.

“Ehm. Bodies, paperwork, it’s all very  _ official _ , and it’d be a lot faster if you worked it out while I, you know, finished the game.”

Mycroft sits back, considering. He keeps secrets for a living, and this is not a hard request. But he can’t help but expect it to be another trap. With everyone else, easy and obvious are only to be expected. 

With someone as clever as Jim? Things are never so simple.

“Alright,” he finds himself saying, once again.


	5. ""Just Dinner""

Mycroft walks into his office to find Jim lounging on the sofa, reading a golf magazine.

“This is actually addressed to you, you know,” Jim says before looking up. “What? If you don't want people sitting in your office you shouldn't have put a couch in here.”

Mycroft resolves to fire the entire security staff. And then poach the French Prime Minister’s own security detail because with the number of fuck ups he committed on a regular basis his staff must be top of class to have kept him alive and well away from both assassins and egg throwers for so long.

Jim eyes him for a moment, the mood turning serious.

“You didn't have any problems, did you?”

“You may think of April 25 as the official date of your expiration.”

“Not too cold and all, hm?”

“I don't know what you possibly mean.”

“But that’s kind of a disgusting way to put it. I’m not a carton of milk.”

“No, a  carton of milk would be much better company for tea.”

Jim ignores him and hums, thinking, bringing the rolled up magazine to tap against his chin.

“That gives me about half a year to wrap things up.”

“Yes.”

“This is a bloody terrible plan,” Jim finally says, more to himself than anything. Then, he adds cheerfully, “I'm _so_ excited.”

∞

Mycroft had expected the favor to be the last of it, but he is promptly corrected when two days later when both his driver and PA are ready at 2:30 p.m. to take him to his 3 o’clock.

He arrives before a dilapidated opera house with once Classical influences. Part of him bemoans the fact that he is about to set foot into this very dusty place and another part of him is shaking his fist for not having thought to make use such a dramatic setting himself.

When he gets inside he finds the emptied interior to be more or less as expected, except the deep red curtain must have been replaced because torn as it is, it has no signs of the dust and mold it would have no doubt acquired had it been the original.

Moriarty is sitting on the mezzanine level, though it has been cleared of the original seats to make room for a round, clothed table topped with tea and all its accoutrements. A masked butler (so it's a theme party, how quaint) stands by with a cart of whatever else they might need.

“Oh you look surprised,” Jim says, even though Mycroft knows he doesn't. “Are you impressed with the decor or did you not expect the dates to continue?”

Both, really.

“Neither,” Mycroft says.

“Boo! I thought we'd gotten past this lying stage,” Jim says.

He gives Jim a beatific smile and glories in the fact that it throws him, if only momentarily. Then he takes a seat.

“Ah, after all this time, you still make my heart go all aflutter,” Jim says to cover his surprise, placing a hand over his heart.

“Now, now,” Mycroft retorts. “We both know you’ve only sustained interest this long because you enjoy the chase more than you enjoy a vault of winnings.”

“You're mixing metaphors.”

“Maybe your close presence is making it hard for me to think clearly.”

Jim stares at him for a second, and then crumples up his napkin in frustration and throws it over the railing.

Mycroft follows it with his eyes, watching it _splat_ sadly into the orchestra level. The butler promptly brings Jim a new cloth napkin, which he immediately crumples up as well.

“Is this how all your dates go?” Mycroft asks mildly.

“ _No.”_

“And here I thought you enjoyed banter.”

“Ugh.”

“What was that?”

“It's different when it's nothing _but_ banter and it goes on for years. Even Sherly puts out. The pool encounter was glorious, don't you agree?” Jim is sulking.

“Yes well, I am here, am I not?”

The butler pours their tea.

“Mm-hm,” Jim says after a sip, mood completely altered in an instant.

“Yes you are. Finally stopped resisting my charms too,” he adds sympathetically. “Must have been _difficult.”_

“So, Mycroft,” he continues. “Since I've got you here in evidently what is a flirty mood, tell me, what do you like most about me?”

“And _don't_ say the intelligence I provide your little projects, that doesn't count.”

“Your life’s work doesn't count?”

“It's incidental!”

“So you want to hear that you have pretty eyes, a shapely bum, that sort of thing?”

Jim flutters his eyelashes, clearly having found his footing. “Do you think so?”

Mycroft waggles his hand in a ‘so-so’ approximation and Jim gives him a very pointed look.

“What stage of dating are we at now, in any case?” Mycroft asks. “According to your plan.”

Jim raises an eyebrow.

“You do always have a plan.”

“Fine, fine,” Jim says, before skewering a strawberry onto his fork and then setting it down.

“First, there’s the flirting across the room.”

Mycroft nods politely, and Jim continues.

“Then a clumsy sort of first date.”

“Go on.”

“Then if the parties are compatible, one of them invites the other out again. Rinse and repeat.”

“No hijacking of itineraries, I see. I suppose you got this list from vintage magazines targeted toward teenaged girls.”

“Yes, hush, don't interrupt. Now, where was I? Right, so next you have the honeymoon period, where you can barely keep your hands off each other.”

“And how long does this last?”

“Depends on how often you see each other. The next phase kicks in when the couple has to deal with the practicalities of reality together.”

“Do staging suicides count?”

“Please hold your questions to the end, Mycroft, really. Manners!”

“Of course. Apologies, Jim.”

“After that, couples usually in some way decide what it is they want for the future, and stick together or break up over it. This stage lasts quites a while as they're usually still distracted by sex. Then occasionally children, or the wish for children come out of it, often prompting marriage. Then if one of them lied about what they wanted, eventually it tends to end in divorce.”

Mycroft opens his mouth.

“No, we're not going to skip to the divorce,” Jim interjects. “Besides, the divorce stage for people of our wealth and position is an entire affair itself. Guilt, shame, expensive lawyers and settlements. Hate sex. Sniping at each other's younger new trophy spouses at events of mutual attendance.”

“This is all very complicated,” Mycroft admits.

Jim drums his fingers on the table with a desolate sigh.

“I just want to plot the slow death of my Regency-era-esque emotionally stunted boyfriend’s future blonde bimbo of a second wife, is that too much to ask?”

“Is this what you do?” Mycroft asks, genuinely curious, cutting in before Jim can respond. “Goad people into playing out various genres with you? Some sort of crime thriller with your lackeys, a fairy tale with Sherlock, a cable drama with Ms. Hooper, and something crossed between a romantic comedy and reality television with me.”

Jim laughs. “And here you said you wouldn't play shrink.”

“Not everything is a story, you know.”

“I do know! But it's so much better when it is.”

“But it should come as no surprise that our little farce of a relationship hasn't stayed on script.”

“We still have time.”

“You don't enjoy my company off script, then?”

Jim hesitates.

“I wouldn't stick around if I didn't.”

∞

The next morning, Mycroft checks his calendar to find that the standing afternoon meetings have been cancelled.

When the phone rings two hours later, he knows who it is despite the unknown number on the ID.

“You know, when I came into your office asking for a distraction, I was actually hoping you'd offer to fuck my brains out,” Jim says without preamble.

“No, no, no, don't hang up,” he quickly continues, just in time to stay Mycroft's hand. “I'm in the middle of an apology, after all.”

“For?”

“Don't interrupt. Honestly, Mycroft.”

“I did this all wrong. I do like you, off script. I like you an awful lot, you know that? I can't imagine a world without you. And believe me, I have tried.”

“You're a…constant. In my plans, in the factors to weigh. It sounds like something I should send a flower language-appropriate bouquet for, doesn't it. Don't worry, I won't trouble that pretty assistant of yours with that.”

“I won't claim that the unobtainable air of you isn't alluring as well. You know I like rare and shiny things, and the key to the British Government is right up there. Is it any surprise I'd want to possess you?”

He sighs then.

“No the surprise is that I've enjoyed this so much. It makes me want to give you things, Mycroft, but you're not as easy as Sherly is to buy gifts for, oh no, a few dead bodies and bombs aren't enough, you need a whole planeful, a whole terrorist cell. What can I say, you make me a more creative man.”

“I like spending time with you, whether it's every minute of the day, or a minute once a year. My feelings for you won't change; I think the past half dozen years have proven that.”

“Now, a character like that doesn't easily fit into my story. You're right.”

“Because stories end, and I don't want this to end.”

He's quiet for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. Mycroft hopes he isn't waiting for a response right then at least, because he wouldn't know what to say.

“So,” Jim says, “let me tie up my little game first.”

He sighs, loud and long-suffering, before Mycroft can interrupt.

“Don't _worry_ , your pure, virgin, precious little baby brother won't be pulling the trigger. Metaphorically or otherwise.”

“And then,” he stops to take a long breath. “And then, after the 25th, I'll. Ask you out again. No playacting this time. Unless we’re both in on it.”

By the end of the sentence, Mycroft hears a nervousness that wasn't there before. He can't see Jim, and can't know how sincere the entire call has been, but finds himself unable to keep the note of tenderness out of his reply.

“Alright,” Mycroft says.

“Jim,” he adds, right before the other end hangs up. “I've a certain newspaper proprietor to send your way. If you need a distraction.”

There's a pause on the other line that Mycroft deduces is attached to a smile, and then it goes dead.

∞

After that, it's radio silence from Jim, a marked departure from the comparatively constant chatter Mycroft had gotten used to.

∞

Sherlock barges into Mycroft’s office in the middle of his filling out a report and the loud slamming of the door causes a stray drop of ink to smear across the last ‘k’ he penned.

Mycroft frowns at it disapprovingly.

“I need you to help me fake my death,” Sherlock says apropos of nothing.

Mycroft wonders if he should feel a sense of deja vu, and his frown deepens. He knew, to some degree, that this event was coming, but still is not happy about the occurrence.

He gestures his brother into one of the two supremely uncomfortable chairs he keeps facing his desk and has him explain.

“It's Moriarty’s final problem, obviously, and he’s not going to rest until one of us is dead,” Sherlock says.

“He’d prefer if it were me,” Sherlock clarifies. “Or both. I'd prefer if it were neither.”

Mycroft hms noncommittally and sets a file on the desk, already prepared for this eventuality.

“Here’s what we're going to do,” Mycroft says, getting straight to business.

Sherlock scans the files quickly with some brief astonishment.

“Don't I get some say in my own death?”

“Of course you do,” Mycroft says in a voice that really meant ‘no, no you don't.’ At Sherlock’s look, he adds, “oh, don't worry. It's just as dramatic as you would have planned it.”

Mycroft briefly wonders if the three of them should have gone into theatre instead, what with the two of them playing such convincing characters and himself effectively playing role of director-producer here. The subject matter was surely sensational enough to be a success; just look at the amount of fun the tabloids were having.

∞

Everything quickly goes south.

Introducing Moriarty to Charles Magnussen, Mycroft learns, was a horrible mistake.

It's like poker. The two of them are, on the surface, quiet. There is little happening, little activity, it seems, but meanwhile each party is calling to raise the stakes higher and higher.

It's not so much the astronomical heights at which they're betting that bothers Mycroft, but the fact that Sherlock, or rather, Sherlock's reputation, has become a chip on the table.

“And the cards?” Mycroft asks, head already in hands, thankfully with no one else but his trusted assistant there to see.

“A headline,” Andrea parrots drolly, tapping away on her phone. He has no doubt her intelligence is solid. But he really wants to right now.

Of _all the petty things._

Betting the outcome of the Sunday paper’s headline, when the other party holds half the newspapers around? Suicide. Laughably.

Whatever Jim was planning it was going to be big enough to make the public uncomfortable, and given the scale of the game the consulting duo had going on, Sherlock was going to be a near casualty.

The next time Mycroft visits his brother and flatmate, he can't help but feel _horribly_ guilty. Sherlock, luckily (not so much, his self-flagellating side protests) assumes he is appropriately acting in accordance to their scheme. But Mycroft’s distress is very much real.

“Meet up for a coffee every now and then, do you?” the ex-soldier jibes. It is salt on his wounds, with a drizzle of lemon.

Mycroft gives him the most baffled, affected, silly response he can muster.

If only regular coffee dates were the cause. No, Sherlock wasn't even collateral in matters of national security. This was just a misstep on Mycroft's part, pure and simple.

His brother would recover, in time, but _oh_ his _wretched_ heart.

It's unforgivable.

∞

April comes sooner than any of them would have liked. But the 25th comes and goes and the world continues around it, like it is just any other day, and Mycroft has to continue to hold his secrets, which are fast piling on top of each other.

He reacts appropriately, shows his face briefly to his brothers contacts (colleagues? friends? loved ones?).

He hears from Sherlock, briefly, a few days later. From Jim, there is still nothing.

∞

Jim Moriarty is lying on the rooftop, limbs askew, brains splattered, blood congealing. Out with a bang, indeed. All in all, a fairly anti-climatic end to a legend. His only consolation is that at least it came as a surprise.  
  
No, that’s not quite right.

Jim groans, and pulls himself to his feet. In an hour the security guard on the floor below would make his rounds and he was not the man meant to find this particular dead body.

No, that man was Warren Petty, a male nurse who existed only on paper, meant to be up and out on the rooftop looking for a place for a smoke break whereupon he would find a 3-hour old corpse instead.

Jim rolled his shoulders, and tried to get rid of the crick in his neck.

It did occur to him that he didn't actually have to lie there hours after Sherlock’s body had been whisked away, but he was rather dedicated to his craft.

Both officially and unofficially, the men sent to gather Moriarty's body were to be intercepted by Mycroft's men. In reality, there was no one, no one at all, to welcome Jim into the land of the dead.

He resolves to make it a bit more public next time. Maybe get a candlelight vigil out of it.

∞

See, the thing is, Mycroft Holmes doesn’t _pine_. He simply is not capable of such a function.

From his perspective, and it is a very just-the-facts,-ma’am perspective, the sequence of events is this:

Jim Moriarty, bored with how easily he’s come to rule his criminal empire, takes interest in the world’s only consulting detective.

Moriarty, seeking to up the stakes, pays Mycroft Holmes, elder brother of consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, a visit in a slight detour in the route of the game.

The consulting counterparts clash and play out a spectacular endgame, and go their separate ways.

Mycroft himself is an incidental, tiny, _tiny_ part of this whole story. He is not _involved_ . He is not a _character_ . He is not _complicit._

That is a bald-faced lie, and he knows it. He has never been so emotionally compromised in his entire career. He’s faked two deaths in the past two years and his office might as well be down the hall from the props department.

Mycroft doesn’t let himself think about this often, but in the absence of the two loudest people in in his life, it’s hard not to notice that something is missing.

He wonders when he got so attached.

Not to his brother; his brother has always been there, and he was blood and it was inevitable no matter what he might say. He has been _attached_ since he was seven.

But the bright-eyed magpie flitting through his life? Mycroft shudders to think of it. He wonders when _person of interest_ became a _personal interest._ When _interest_ grew to accommodate _attraction._ To his puzzlebox mind, to that expressive face, to the way he _moved_ (as if through the realm of nightmares and  dreams) _._

Mycroft opens his bottom-most drawer and fishes out a small metal box. He double checks that any sensitive information on his laptop is saved, and then presses the small flat button on the side of the box.

It detonates the EMP.

Which effectively shorts out all cameras and recording devices that may be accessed in his office.

And then he

slowly lowers his head down to his desk

and just keeps it there for a good four minutes and fifty-something seconds, before the electronics all come back online.

Good grief.

∞

Mycroft opens his front door to find that someone has already been in his home today, just recently, aside from him.

Cautious now, he doesn’t set down the umbrella in hand but instead holds it up before him, brandishing it, nearly, as if ready for a fight.

Then he hears a cough, and deduces that the intruder is either very comfortable or very stupid.

He continues down the corridor only to find that the lights are on and the intruder is not some burglarizing freelancer hired to rifle through his things nor is it his brother with one of his pranks.

Jim Moriarty is sitting in one of his armchairs in the living room, flipping through a photo album and petting a fat, orange cat in his lap.

Mycroft does not own a cat.

Jim looks up at him, but instead of a greeting the first thing out of his mouth is a sneeze.

His eyes are rimmed with red.

“Are you _allergic_?” Mycroft asks, aghast.

“ _No_ ,” Jim says in the congested tone of someone who knows damn well what he’s allergic to and doesn't care (Mycroft understands. He still eats strawberry ice cream).

Mycroft has already put his head down in utter defeat at the absurdity that is his life once today and resolves that he will not do so again, definitely _not_ twice in one day. Instead, he puts up his umbrella and coat, and then comes back into the living room to take a seat opposite Jim (and the cat).

“She’s right, you don’t look anything now like you did when you were a child,” Jim says without looking up. He’s grinning at the pictures and making comments to the cat.

“The cat?” Mycroft asks skeptically. Is Jim losing his mind?

Jim rolls his eyes. “Your _sister._ ”

The unbidden memory of her teasing him, of her oddly prophetic comment on how silly he will look as an adult, rises up. Mycroft clears his throat and smooths down his tie.

“Why are you here?”

Jim looks at him. _Really_ looks at him.

“You’re not happy,” Jim deduces, squinting. Mycroft doesn’t say anything, but his expression communicates a world of sarcasm. _No, really?? When I have all the reason to be happy,_ et all.

“What?” Jim asks, defensive. He cuddles the cat closer.

“Where did you even get the cat?” Mycroft can’t stop himself asking.

“Isn’t it yours?”

“No!”

“Well it was right outside your window.”

Oh god, he’s taken the neighbor’s cat. (If not for the very comfortable casual wear Jim is sporting in lieu of a designer suit or designer loungewear even, and the fact that Mycroft can see the photos in the album on his lap, also perhaps the fact that the cat is overweight and orange rather than white, fluffy, and snooty, he might have looked like a cartoon villain. )

“He’s very well behaved,” Jim adds defensively, as if they were arguing about keeping it. Mycroft resolves not to breathe another word about the cat (and to dump it back outside the window after this conversation).

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. Might as well get closure while he can.

“Your plan all along was to destroy my brother’s life, is it any surprised that I’m not happy to see you?” Mycroft says. He should be phoning the secret service or whatnot but he is _just. so. tired._

Jim looks at him curiously.

“Yes but, you knew that.”

Mycroft just looks at him pointedly.

“Oh. Ohh, you feel guilty about that,” Jim says, then sneezes again, prompting an angry _mrow!_ from the sneezed-on cat. He pauses for the moment, a perfect picture of contemplation, as he tries to understand. “About...being around when Sherlock fell? Or...about the newspapers?”

“I don’t understand,” Jim finally says.

Mycroft purses his lips together, because confessions do not come naturally to him, not to someone whose sole purpose some days is to keep secrets.

“Magnussen’s bet,” Mycroft bites out. The cat leaps out of Jim’s lap and darts off to who knows where. There’s probably orange cat hair all over the chair now.

Jim still looks uncomprehending.

“What about it?”

His playing with Magnussen was what caused the scale of escalation with Sherlock. Even before voicing this, it breaks Mycroft, just a little. His expression turns forlorn, and he drops his hands to his lap.

Jim just scowls at him.

“It’s been _two years_ ,” he protests, scowling. Then his expression turns into something almost contrite. “Oh did you think it was _you_ ? That it wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for _you?_ Don’t be silly, don’t be so big-headed, you were nothing but a phone call.”

Jim sighs and sets down the photo album, then gets up so he can invade Mycroft’s personal space to retrieve Mycroft’s handkerchief from his pocket to blow his nose.

Then he tries to hand it back, and Mycroft makes a face.

Jim rolls his eyes.

“It would have happened _anyway,_ ” he says, balling up the handkerchief and stuffing it back in Mycroft’s pocket. “I’m the _villain_ of the story, Sherly knew what he was getting into. I’m also a consulting _criminal_ , Charles and I would have crossed paths sometime _anyway_.”

“Don’t go thinking everything is always because of you.”

Mycroft is careful not to give anything away on his face now. Absolved or not, he’s not about to show his cards so freely around Mr. Moriarty now.

“And how does your death play into all this?”

Jim plops down on the arm of the armchair Mycroft is in, all smiles.

“Oh dying was great, I’m going to do it, I think, three more times.” At Mycroft’s look of bemusement he adds. “I’ll be an urban legend, it’ll be awesome. Even if I die for real, no one will believe it!”

“It’s a _ghost story!_ ” he says. “Get it??”

Jim grins, smug and expectant. Mycroft just gives him the blandest look he can muster up. Jim’s smile drops and he gives Mycroft the stink eye instead, then wanders off elsewhere in the house, calling out for “here kitty, kitty, kitty.”

“Jim!” Mycroft calls after him. Good god, the man won’t stop _touching everything_.

He finds him on the ground of a guest bathroom, trying to coax the cat out from the tub. Mycroft sighs, and leans against the doorway, too weary for games.

“Please tell me you didn’t really just come by to kidnap a cat.”

Jim blinks up at him for a long moment.

“Oh!” he jumps up, and rummages through his pockets. “Almost forgot.”

Jim hands Mycroft a crumpled up piece of paper. A...telegram?

“Sherlock is in a _biiit_ of trouble,” he adds, before turning back to the cat.

∞

“A bit” was clearly an understatement, but Mycroft takes it to also mean that Jim has no qualms about what Sherlock is doing, and that whatever project he’s now undertaken has little to do with England or its government’s younger siblings.

Serbia goes...well, all things considered.

His brother is retrieved in one piece and surprisingly sound of mind, considering. The brother pushes and prods all of Mycroft’s soft spots in an effort to goad him out of any guilt, and while Mycroft can’t say it works particularly well, he can pretend to look like it does.

∞

The next few days are _tortuous_ because there are his parents and then there is his brother’s spat with his flatmate (understandable), but yet another bomb threat sees that things are back the way they were, that everyone is once again reminded of what is most important (see, kidnappings  _do_ solve problems).

Mycroft arrives home after a relatively peaceful day at the office not long after that (no bombings, no Situations of national interest to defuse) and immediately notices something is wrong.

There is a litter box right outside the kitchen.

He stares at it for a good minute, nearly forgetting to lock the front door.

“Jim?” he calls out, voice less steady than he’d hope.

And lo and behold, Jim comes out in Valentino sweatpants, holding the neighbor’s cat.

“Oh Despereaux, look, Papa is home. He’s spent all day assuring various countries the oil crisis isn’t going to be an oil crisis at all and meanwhile nobody’s noticed the stock numbers are about to go all wonky, do you think that’s why he has those lines on his forehead?”

“You named the cat.”

“Oh, that’s what you’re choosing to focus on?”

“It’s the neighbor’s cat.”

“Eh, semantics,” Jim says with a shrug, before dumping the furry, hissy creature into Mycroft’s arms and picking up a day bag from the floor. “I need somewhere to stay today. Just temporarily. You know, accounts transfers and all that.”

“You have a flat.”

“Renovating.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. The cat yawns.

“So, do you want to have dinner?” Jim finally says.

∞

They end up waiting for food to be delivered because Mycroft literally has nothing in his fridge (except cat food now, apparently), though in all honesty he doesn’t have much of an appetite now either, despite having foregone lunch at the office because of the timing to get all those calls to all those countries out.

“We’ve skipped several steps, haven’t we?” Mycroft asks out of the blue, as they set the table and serve the food, and everything still feels incredibly surreal.

“Hm?”

“We skipped the dating and went straight into cohabitation.”

“Oh you remember that.”

“I don’t want joint custody of the cat.”

“Cruel.” As Jim says that, Mycroft watches him steal a forkful of mashed cauliflower from Mycroft’s plate and take a bite. While sitting in a chair on the other side of the table corner. In his dining room. In Mycroft’s home. In designer loungewear. With no shoes on.

Mycroft hesitantly prods his salmon with a fork. It certainly smelled like he was awake. But this world made zero sense.

Jim nudges Mycroft’s foot with his own, then draws circles across his ankle with it, and moves it just a bit higher.

“Certainly feels real, doesn’t it?”

Mycroft gives him a very suspicious look immediately. If this were a _dream_ , then _of course_ his thoughts would be basically broadcast, and answering his mental questions aloud was actually _less likely—_

“Oh stop _overthinking_ everything,” Jim groans. “Do you want some wine? You do have wine in this cushy house of yours at least, don’t you? Actually it doesn’t matter, I brought you wine.”

And then he pulls out a bottle of wine from the day bag. Definitely not a real-life occurrence. This was a _sitcom_.

“As a house guest and all,” Jim continues to explain. “Oh stop looking at me like that. Yes we skipped a couple of steps, but it’s not as if I’m going to take over the nightstand to the right of your bed because clearly you have a preference for sleeping on the left, and host dinner parties where we invite your bosses and visit your parents with you for Christmas…”

He trails off, and they both stare at each other with completely unreadable expressions.

“I mean. Unless you want to…”

“No!” Mycroft’s expression is now unquestionably one of absolute horror.

Jim shrugs, and Mycroft groans.

“You promised you wouldn’t do this,” he says, giving up and stabbing at the garnished fish on his plate before shoving it into his mouth and angry-chewing.

“Do what?”

“This trite little genre play we keep falling into.”

“And I’m not!” Jim protests, jamming the heel of his foot down on Mycroft’s toes.

“Ow.”

“I was just saying I _wouldn’t_ be doing those things. Because we’re _not_ an old married couple. We’re just having dinner.”

“Just dinner.”

“ _Just dinner._ ”

∞

The promise of “just dinner” is still echoing in Mycroft’s mind as he rolls over to lay flat on his back, breathless, panting.

Also naked and sticky.

There’s a _huff_ to the right of him, and then the rustling of sheets as Jim stretches out his arm and gropes blindly, until it latches onto Mycroft and he can clumsily use the anchor to pull himself closer, until he’s half squashed on top of him.

“Well that was fun,” Jim says.

They’re too loose-limbed and fuzzy-minded to bother getting up and cleaning anything. The sheets are done for and will need to be burned. Mycroft can’t remember where he dropped his shirt, between the kitchen and the bed. A faraway _mrow!_ floats in from somewhere just beyond the door.

“Aww Despereaux wants to come in,” Jim says with a yawn, making no move to get up and go to the door. He wraps his arm around Mycroft a bit tighter to communicate in no unclear terms that Mycroft is not to get up for the door either.

Clearly not “just dinner.”

∞

Jim is still in bed when Mycroft takes a shower the next morning, and then Jim is showering while Mycroft is in the walk-in closet, getting dressed, facing his row of suits as he hears the water stop and then the footfalls move through the bedroom.

Jim is typing away on his laptop when he finally comes down to the kitchen not for breakfast, because that kind of thing doesn’t exist in his house, generally, though his assistant brings him coffee with the car, but so Mycroft can pick up the jacket and waistcoat he left discarded by the table yesterday. He frowns at the food they left out, and the telling cat hairs stuck to the plate that once held fish.

He narrows his eyes suspiciously at Jim. They haven’t said two words to each other all morning.

Jim only briefly glances up before going back to his typing, but then when Mycroft’s gaze doesn’t leave, he stops.

“What?” he asks, defensive already. “I’m not going to kiss you on the cheek and tell you to _have a nice day at work, honey_ , or pack you a lunch or, or…”

He trails off and Mycroft squints at him. There is a long pause.

“I mean,” Jim continues haltingly. “Unless you—”

“Good _bye_ Jim,” Mycroft cuts him off, turning on his heel abruptly to head out the door. He hears the typing resume before he closes it behind him.

∞

Mycroft does his absolute most to keep his personal life out of mind as he conducts his work the way he would _any other day_ and it more or less works. Alas he succumbs to utter curiosity and checks his personal mobile just briefly, and is immensely relieved when he sees no new notifications on it.

And then at 4 in the afternoon, he gets a knock on the door and then his assistant is delivering a message about the Chinese.

The Chinese who have ordered a fleet of A380 commercial airplanes, which have only come to market a month ago and have yet to be added to any international airlines’ fleet. The Chinese whose order of the first fleet of the world’s largest commercial airplanes has gone completely missing.

It sounds utterly impossible that cargo that enormous could possibly be misplaced, let alone go missing, so they are looking for….consultation, as they’ve put it. (The Chinese had also heard about someone in the British government resolving an airspace crisis for France last month)

Mycroft glances at his personal phone, with its 0 new messages, then turns back to his assistant explaining this utterly ridiculous and completely over-the-top act of crime.

Mycoft has to hide a smile.

Because it appears he hasn’t truly changed. That despite the two long years they’ve not seen each other, and despite whatever delusions he has about what relationships are supposed to be—he is still the same man that caught Mycroft Holmes’s attention, and reeled him in. They’re going to be fine.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh this might become a thing for me


End file.
